A Study in Casper Town
by The Ghost Writers
Summary: Sherlock is in Casper Town. Now, we don't know how he got here, whether he's high or not, and exactly how OOC he's going to end up, but we hope he survives his stay. Hoodverse AU.
1. The First Day

**Title**: A Study in Casper Town

**Word Count**: Around 1,500

**Written By**: Gloss and Cendi

**Summary**: Sherlock is in Casper Town. Now, we don't know how he got here, whether he's high or not, and exactly how OOC he's going to end up, but we hope he survives his stay.

* * *

**Chapter One: The First Day  
**

Let's have Sherlock come to (strike-through)Hell(/strike-through) Casper Town.

—**Jo**

* * *

Walking down the Main Street of the town, Sherlock spotted a girl, short, wearing some ridiculous coat.

_Just turned down a marriage proposal._

She was shaking her head, her face somewhere between surprise, disgust, and hysteria. Her ring finger was red, probably from pulling the ring off too fast. _Obvious._

When her eyes met Sherlock's, she face-palmed, grumbled something that looked suspiciously like 'stupid tourists', and called for her… assistant? adopted child? It sounded like she slipped with the name, so, maybe she had several children/assistants and couldn't be bothered to remember their names. Looking more closely, it seemed like assistant, the girl was taking notes and stayed a professional distance away from her employer.

"Obviously serial killer," He muttered, passing by a cute girl, around twenty—possibly 5'1'? who was arguing with a much taller male. Glancing at a few other people, "Everyone knows it, but she's too clever to leave any evidence which can be used to convict her."

The consulting detective watched as the girl literally ripped apart a passerby and began to nibble on the heart. The bloody body was left behind, and a black cat began dragging it away with its teeth. "Or possibly no-one cares."

* * *

"Hello!" The ridiculously cheerful girl in front of him—The same one that was the assistant before—smiled up at him. Young. Far too young for this job, unless child labor laws didn't apply here, they might not… He raised his eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.

"I'm Leaf. Or Silvie, that's what Ms Aerist calls me, so you can call me that too, if you like it better. You're new here, aren't you? And sane. You remind me of Zadi—that's my boss, with the trenchcoat—kind of. You look at all the Clues. But you know what they really mean, don't you? I don't think Zadi does, not really."

Sherlock watched the girl, Leaf, impassively, waiting for her to finish.

"But, uh, yeah. So, what's your name? Do you need a place to stay? I think the bed and breakfast has a room. So does WaGotP, but, well, that's Ms Aerist's house. You'll probably want to avoid her for a little while." The girl lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She doesn't like newbies very much, see."

"Well, Miss Silver, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, it's Silvie, not Silve—oh, never mind. So, Sherlock. That's a cool name. A lot of people here have weird names like that, too, so you should fit in just fine. Once you aren't sane anymore, I mean. If you're sane, you stick out like a sore thumb. And then Ms Aerist kills you."

So then that cute girl must have been Ms Aerist. How many serial killers could live in a single town, after all?

Sherlock had an odd feeling, then, like the Universe was laughing at him. But that was impossible. Simply his imagination.

* * *

"Why is there a head in your refrigerator?"

It was two days later, and Silver, Silvie, _whatever,_ was visiting his hotel room.

"Experiments."

"Oh. They say Miss Aerist has a huge laboratory in her house, the one With a Gargoyle on the Porch? 'Course, we just call it House WaGotP, 'cos it's easier. That's What Purple calls it, anyway. They do experiments in there."

Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow. "What sort of experiments?" Perhaps this Ms Aerist, serial killer though she might be (and it was hardly as though he minded that; he wasn't a murderer because killing was boring, not because of any sort of moral compunction), was a like-minded soul? He'd not met anyone here so far who seemed to care much about the scientific method.

Silvie shrugged. "I dunno. Zombies and stuff like that, probably? Ms Aerist is a Mad Scientist."

Sherlock was interested now. "And where's this House With a Gargoyle on the Porch, then?"

"Oh, right on the street main. You can't miss it, it's the one with the thunderclouds."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. What did thunderclouds have to do with anything?

* * *

Now that he was here, he definitely got it.

The cheery (and quite boring) normal house was completely inconspicuous, other than the fact that dark gray and black rain clouds hovered over the roof and—Was it just his imagination or did it say, 'Go the fuck away'?

Another girl than the one he expected popped out of the house, around thirteen.

She widened her eyes and shoved him to the ground.

"What the-"

"I thought I made Leaf tell you not to come here. **YOU WILL DIE HERE GO AWAY**."

Sherlock pulled away from the clinging young girl, dusting off his jacket as though she'd dirtied it.

A completely natural presumption, too, as the girl was covered nearly head-to-toe in blood. She had no wounds herself, but the person whose blood she wore certainly hadn't survived.

"GO!" shouted the girl, frantic. "GO BEFORE SHE KILLS YOU!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You aren't in shock, and you weren't victimized. Why, then, are you reacting this way? Surely you've seen Ms Aerist kill before, and you don't know me, so some sort of emotional connection can't be to blame."

The mystery girl laughed. "I don't know you? Are you kidding? Everyone knows you! You're Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective!"

"Well," he stated, "It appears that you know of me-"

"SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET OUT OF HERE!" With strength that really should not be possessed by a girl her age, she chucked him over to a little house with an old lady knitting on the porch…

"Oh, dear," said the old woman, setting her knitting down on the porch with a clink of steel from the needles. The blanket she was knitting was an obnoxious shade of orange, like a service dog's vest, and hurt his eyes to look at for more than a few minutes. "Are you perfectly alright? Purple can sometimes be a bit… overenthusiastic."

The lady reminded him of Mrs Hudson, a woman he'd helped clean up some difficulties with the law in America, all kindly smiles with a hint of steel underneath; Sherlock got the feeling she wasn't one to mess about with.

"So," she started, "I'm Old Lady Musa. Who might you be?"

Old Lady Musa. It was obvious from her accent that her first language wasn't English. She actually wasn't that old, he realized, but instead just acted like it. In reality she looked in her twenties, which led him to wonder just why she was acting so old. And why she was knitting the color orange. The knitting in question was very tight and professional, and her hands were moving even when she spoke. She didn't seem to favor the color much, judging by the distaste on her face. It was almost definitely for someone else.

"Sherlock Holmes. Who are you knitting for?" Musa seemed surprised for a moment, but he assumed it was because of his question.

"Mr. Holmes, do you know of a John Watson?"

"What? No. Answer my question."

She smiled in one of those disgusting smiles adults used to give him whenever he said… well. Anything. She knew something he didn't, and he didn't like it. "I'm knitting for the universe, dear. And do stay away from Cendi… She's a bit cheesed up in the head."

A teenaged Asian girl popped out of nowhere. She sparkled slightly. "WHO SUMMONED THE ALMIGHTY CHEESE-"

"Go away, Cheese."

"Oh~! A newb! I haven't seen one of you in awhile… Can I call you Steampipe?"

"I don't smoke."

"…I'll take that as a yes."

"Oh, _hello_."

Musa moaned. "Cendi, you have horrible timing."

"No, lovely, I have perfect timing. Really, dear, two of my favorite people just outside, and a newbie, too; you expect me to miss this?"

The girl who'd pushed him, apparently named Purple, murmured just at the edge of his hearing, "At least she's using punctuation."

Sherlock frowned, feeling he was missing something. He hated that feeling.

The newcomer was Ms Aerist, of course, the serial killer and Mad Scientist Apparent. Standing as close to her as he now was, he could see that she was even older than the so-called "Old Lady" Musa; still not particularly old, perhaps twenty-seven at the outside. She had an ageless, unreal quality about her, which made gauging it difficult. She, too, had an accent, but while Musa's he could place easily, hers was more difficult. It was a strange mixture, and just slightly off. It certainly wasn't English in any permutation, though there was an Estuary quality to her tees and aitches. The shape of her vowels were a bit Scottish, a bit Russian. Her consonants might have been Eastern European or perhaps Israeli; he'd need more data to narrow it down further.

In any case, the accent was heavy, indicative of English being at least a third language, if not later.

"Now, Sherlock Holmes— say, can I call you Sherly?" Cendi asked, almost innocently.


	2. Meeting the Neighbours

**Title**: A Study in Casper Town

**Word Count**: 1 700-ish

**Written By**: Cendi and Hundred

**Summary**: Sherlock is in Casper Town. Now, we don't know how he got here, whether he's high or not, and exactly how OOC he's going to end up, but we hope he survives his stay.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Meeting the Neighbours**

_...Cendi is strange~_

-Fantine

* * *

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't tell you my name."

"Oh, sorry. Would you prefer scienceofdeduction? Only I really like Sherly." Cendi muttered about fucking tourists always being so weird about her using their true names and it was getting on her godsbedamned nerves.

The Narrator realised with a shock why Cendi renamed everyone she came across, and then shuddered. Cendi always referred to her as That Thrice-Cursed Bitch Who Will One Day Be Fucked In Hell By Satan, or TTCBWWODBFIHBS for short. Not a particularly good omen, that.

It still didn't explain those names she used the first time she spoke to someone, though. Science Of Deduction, _really_. What an odd title.

Sherlock blinked and shook his head, as though to clear it. Unsurprising; Musa was lazy about keeping up with the exterminators on general principle, and there was a colony of nargles who'd built a nest under the wooden stairs of her front porch. "I suppose you may call me whatever you like," he said, a bit OOC because the Narrator had no idea how he'd respond to that.

The Readership threatened to take the Narrator to court, because that was _unacceptable_.

The Narrator's lawyer, Creative License, pointed out that this was Casper Town they were talking about so stfu.

The reader is now confused, and we like it that way.

_It's easier to pull out the brain and drink it like a milkshake._

Uh. Back to the story—

What story? This is basically just a really weird RP…

YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH.

Um. While the Narrator is arguing with herself—

* * *

"GOD DAMN IT MINNIE I TOLD YOU NOT TO PRESS THE BLUE RESET BUTTON!"

"WHICH ONE WAS I SUPPOSED TO PRESS THEN?"

"THE GREEN ONE!"

* * *

Sherlock suddenly found himself in his hotel room, and that little girl, Sliver, was it? was going on about something amazingly_ boring. _

But he could have sworn...

* * *

Cendi, Minnie, Hundred, Musa, and Cheese were all sitting in front of House TLWitL, talking excitedly.

"It's Sherlock Holmes, Cheese! _Sherlock Holmes_! He's here! In Casper Town!" said Hundred.

"No shit, Sherlock," said Minnie.

Hundred pointedly ignored her. "We've got to protect him! He's not insane, guys, he'll never last a day here, and if he dies then he'll never meet Dr Watson!"

"My brains bring all the boys to the yard…" mumbled Cendi, and then, louder, said "So what?"

"So what? _So what_?" shrieked Hundred. "If he never meets him, then this universe _won't have any johnlock_, mum!"

Cendi froze. "oh gods" she said—she could only last so long using proper grammar—"not even ust"?

"Not even UST."

Cendi clutched onto Musa's shoulders, her pupils blown wide in something like terror. "we have to keep him safe varsha" she said, her tone informing their little group that this was completely non-negotiable. "we _have_ to"

They were shaken out of their mini!OOC feelings to be doing better things: Like protect Sherlock Holmes. Which partially didn't make sense, because I was almost positive Cendi was the big bag… I mean, bad. Big bad.

Sitting in a non-existing diner, stuffing fries in her mouth, was Silia. Or whatever her name was.

He was trying to work out _what _exactly Cendi, Gloss, and Minnie were doing, staring at him through the bushes. They disappeared the second the noticed him looking, though.

Curious.

Very curious indeed.

"Why, hello, Sir!"

Sherlock frowned at the young man who'd spoken. His accent, Irish, and his features, young and emotive, reminded him of someone, or, rather, gave him a vague, uneasy feeling that he ought to be reminded of someone: it had something to do with computers, he thought, and oranges. Or was it plums…?

He shook off the failure of reminiscence. "Hello?"

The young man (seventeen, perhaps; little more than a boy—)

(Sherlock blinked internally at the turn of his thoughts: he wasn't so much older, was he?)

**AHEM**.

The Narrator coughed awkwardly, apologised about the interruption, and pointedly refrained from looking at the cat.

The young man grinned widely, his smile slightly crooked. "Hi. I'm Plug. Well, Calvin Plug, really, but everyone just calls me Plug. Except for…" He paused, and lowered his voice anxiously. "Except for Cendi. But she hardly ever uses people's common names, so. Um. I'm the assistant professor of English Literature over at the Triborough Bridge University College of the Arts. Only three per-cent of our undergraduates are human, did you know? We've got a limit."

Sherlock stared. This Plug fellow was quite clearly insane. "Really?"

Plug took his deadpan as a serious question, and continued on excitedly, "Yes, isn't it amazing? We're the only tertiary academy on Earth 2743 with those percentages. Even some off-planet unis have more human undergrads. But we were really interested in naturalisation, you know? So many non-humans come to Earth 2743 completely clueless about the society, and then we have incidents. But this way, they intensively study human culture, and once they've graduated, they've got a degree they can put on an Earth 2743 résumé, they can pass for human, know what is and isn't toxic, all of that. It's a really helpful programme, I think. I mean, we only teach basic human anatomy over at the College of the Arts, for obvious reasons, but it _is_ a required course, and we've some excellent professors, you know? They explain everything really well. You should see how much the MIB has saved in the past decade alone, compared to back before the programme began. Altered for monetary inflation, of course…"

Yes, quite insane.

"Was there a _point _to this?"

"Obviously." He mumbled under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like 'Stupid n00bs…'

"You're new here, sane, and Cendi hasn't killed you yet. Your brother keeps sending spies and surveillance, and we really don't like that."

"My brother, you say?"

"Mycroft Holmes, correct. Yeah, so anyway, the paper bags are probably going to get you soon, I've had to disable _at least _forty cameras, and Sophie keeps eating your brother's spies."

Sophie purred in the affirmative.

"Wh— How did a _cat _get in here? What—"

**THIS BROADCAST IS BEING INTERRUPTED FOR A MESSAGE FROM PAPER BAGS**

"Oh, god," the narrator moaned, "not this _again. _We've worn out the paper bags…"

**HEY**

**STOP**

**WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING**

**INTERRUPTING THE BROADCAST**

**SHAME ON YOU**

**SHAME ON YOUR FAMILY**

_**SHAME ON YOUR COW**_

"I…" began the Narrator, "I don't actually _have_ a cow."

**WELL YOU HAVE ONE NOW SO HAH**

A cow suddenly materialised in the Narrator's bedroom.

"Oh, shit."

**ANYWAY**

**LIKE WE WERE TRYING TO SAY EARLIER**

**THERE IS A MAN BY THE NAME OF SHERLOCK HOLMES WHOM WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE HAS GONE INTO HIDING IN CASPER TOWN**

**THIS MAN IS WANTED BY THE GOVERNMENT FOR BEING A RIGHT BASTARD**

**IF YOU HAVE SEEN HIM (TALL, DARK, AND HANDSOME, HAS GOT A DOUBLE-CHIN… YOU CAN'T MISS HIM) WE URGE YOU TO CALL +4335 983 46 46464**

**THANK YOU FOR YOU COOPERATION AND WE NOW RETURN TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BROADCASTING**

Plug waved his hand dismissively. "Ignore the cat."

Sophie did not purr in the affirmative. Instead, she arched her back under Sherlock's hand, seeking out pets. Sherlock stroked her absentmindedly.

"WAIT!" said Cheese.

"How—"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Cheese walked up to the screen, glared and stated, "I thought I'd killed all of you. Paper bags! Well, not today! And stop making cows appear! You're so stupid! _Torchwo_— I mean, _the government _is trying to come here. You're risking everything!"

"Oh Gods," Plug groaned. "Cheese is talking to the readers and paper bags at the same time."

"Guys," said Silvie, "Stop breaking the fourth wall. You know the narrator doesn't like that."

Cendi rolled her eyes. "Since when do we care with TTCBWWODBFIHBS likes or doesn't?"

Silvie jumped. "Ms Aerist! I didn't— Why are— What are you doing here?"

"I'm come to greet the newest inhabitant of our lovely town. _Obviously_."

The serial killer raised an eyebrow. She sounded almost like him when she said that, if 5th-step higher, with a thick accent, and an odd grasp of English grammar. Which is to say, nothing like him at all. But the dismissive tone, subtextually screaming 'why do you even _speak_, you idiot?', that was familiar.

Aerist extended a long arm jerkily, with the feeling of badly-done animation, too few frames breaking the illusion of motion. "Hallo~" she said, "I'm Cendi. You're Sherly."

"No I'm not—" began Sherlock, but Silvie cut him off, whispering in his ear.

"She doesn't actually care."

"You're a chemist, aren't you? Have got access to narcotics?"

Sherlock thought to say that he wasn't that sort of chemist, but a phantom tingling in his arms, pricks of non-existent needles, caused him to simply nod.

"_Wonderful_," said Aerist, grinning like a shark, showing far, _far_ too many teeth. "Have you got a flat yet?"

"I _told_ you, Cendi,"—the 'You Stupid Bitch' was left out—"he doesn't. My information networks are practically flawless."

"Well, _sorry._ I was trying to be _nice_, unlike you _Americans_."

"I know I'm rude. I just don't give a shit. Since when do you?"

"Hey!" Minnie frowned. "This shouldn't be happening _now."_

A sigh.

"Fine."

Cendi put a hand over her eyes in a wonderful impression of Captain Jean-Luc Picard. "I care since _none of your godsbedamned business._"

"Oh, it's none of my business now, is it? Because you want Holmes to yourself, is it?"

"Brilliant. Stunning. Whatever _are_ you doing, spending time around us lesser beings? It's not becoming, someone with _three entire brain-cells_ hanging 'round."

"Cendi, dear?" interjected Minnie. "Your sarcasm is dripping again."

"Oh, is it?" deadpanned the serial killer. "Apologies."


End file.
